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Bridget's adventures as a Union spy in the Civil War.


He reached for a folder on his desk and handed it to me.

"Oh, and speaking of Sharon Stone, here's a story she asked me to write for her," he continued. "Her publicist's name and number is inside. She'll put you in touch with her."

He didn't weave her into the conversation at all in the same way he did his two college-age daughters and his involvement in the music ministry at his church.

"Your church?" I asked. I didn't expect to hear that.

"There are quite a few people there that know about my writing," he said before going on to tell me a story about a retired gentleman in the choir. The man asked him if he could write a story that would entice his wife to spice things up not in the bedroom, but outdoors on a camping trip.

"They're the ones who inspired me to write my book, well, at least a short story, which eventually turned out to be the first chapter," he said. "The next time I saw them, they walked into church holding hands like two smitten teenagers."

A Viagra generation church-going couple inspired him to write this book? This was good copy. I'd eventually get him to open up about his wife later in the interview. I just had to. He was just starting to open up. Eventually, he did.

"I was a late bloomer sexually," he said. "I didn't come to realize it until after my kids were born and my wife lost interest in having sex. I could only play guitar and mandolin, sail, ride my motorcycle, and go hang gliding to a point that it was no longer a distraction. I'd go for months, now years, without sex."

I was expecting to hear "I could only have so many affairs around town." Instead, he asked me, "How long has it been for you?"

"That's a totally inappropriate question," I said.

"But you have no problem prodding me about my marital relations," he said.

"Of course I don't," I said. "It's my job to get the answers that aren't offered easily. You don't talk about your wife like you do your kids, you clients, your church, your music, your German motorcycle, your grandfather's boat that you restored and keep in the Bay, not to mention the time you've spent writing when you're not selling multi-million-dollar homes. A man in love with his wife doesn't have time to indulge in things like that by himself. What does she think of your book?"

"That's very astute of you," he said. "I see how that makes you such a good reporter. What did your boyfriend or husband think of all that time you spent reading erotica last night?"

I couldn't think of how to justify that question, let alone if I should answer it.

"The bags under your eyes are a tell-tale giveaway," he said, interjecting my pondering pause. "I know you just got the assignment yesterday, and you seem overly well-prepared for this interview."

I blushed and I was embarrassed, not just because he made mention of my grey, droopy eyes I was trying to keep open with my third cup of cappuccino, but because deep down, he called me on my own lack of sex life. There was none. I broke up with my ex-boyfriend a year and a half ago and there hadn't been anyone else since then. Did I have to admit that, or was it that obvious?

"Tell you what, let me make up for my rude inquisition by continuing this conversation over lunch," he said. "My treat. I'm not trying to buy good press, but you look like you could use it and I'm hungry. Besides, we really haven't even started talking about my book and my writing."

I let him drive, which was a good thing. He drove a brand-new Porsche 911 Carrera that he bought in large part with the advance he got from his book. He had too much fun tearing up on the road. Or maybe it was for the thrill of making me scream when he started pushing it to 110 miles per hour on the freeway. It was fair enough. His driving habits and his financing were going into the story.

"How many speeding tickets have you had?" I hoped he could hear my question above the wind that raced through our ears."

"I'm one away from getting my license suspended," he said.

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